Brief Gaudy Hour

by Margaret Campbell Barnes

  By the time her women had finished working upon her, Anne was sleek and attractive as ever. Suffering had lent a new interest to her features, but, although she was barely thirty-three, all the radiance of youth had gone from her forever. The long weeks of a dispirited convalescence had been spent playing with her dogs in the deserted gardens at Greenwich, or resting in her own apartments while Mark Smeaton sang to her. For Anne herself seldom sang any more. She only watched and waited, wondering what the rest of her life would be like without Henry’s favour. She had no illusion about his ever forgiving her.

  Glad to put off the moment of meeting him, she had paused on her way to the tilt yard to watch Mark Smeaton mount a restive new horse he had bought. Arabella and Madge Skelton were shaken with laughter because, for all his finery, he was such a poor horseman, and even Anne herself was smiling. She found it easier to relax with these lovable girls now that they were all relieved of the presence of the two Janes. “Why, Mark, whither away in all the new May Day garments?” she teased.

  “To Secretary Cromwell’s, to dine,” he had answered, puffed up with self-importance.

  “And since when have you been on such terms of friendship with Thomas Cromwell that, although he is too busy to attend anything as frivolous as a tournament, he should put himself to the pains of entertaining you?” enquired Arabella, wickedly.

  “He has guests, ’Bella, and needs someone to sing,” joined in Madge. “That is how our songster can afford a new horse.”

  But Smeaton, red in the face, drew a well-thumbed letter from his pouch and, in spite of his equestrian difficulties, leaned down to dangle the Secretary of State’s seal beneath their noses. “He has perhaps heard that I have been much in the Queen’s company of late, when others have deserted her,” he suggested complacently, eying Anne adoringly, and starting off for London with a flourish.

  The women looked after him and laughed, and Margaret muttered something about a dangerous, swollen-headed coxcomb. “Will Brereton says everybody is asking where he gets his money from,” added Madge. And because they were all making fun of him, Anne remembered how sensitively he had helped her through the dragging hours. “Poor foolish lad,” she sighed, touched by his devotion, and through her own suffering, grown more kind.

  But soon maids-of-honour and musicians were forgotten. Holding herself regally as she approached the royal stand, Anne tried to control her nervous tremors at thought of meeting Henry. Would he begin upbraiding her again, or shame her publicly? But she need not have worried. Although he never once smiled at her or gave her a personal word, he went through all the ceremonial motions of greeting, answered her enquiry about his health, and made formal enquiry for her own, then seated her at his side; so that no one save their personal followers could have suspected that there was anything amiss. Anne, the Queen, was there—Queen of the tournament. Pale from her illness and grievous disappointment, but elegant as ever. Later on, perhaps, she would be more fortunate and the bells would ring again. “Serve the witch right for making a tyrant of a good King,” growled her enemies. But she was bearing her misfortune with such dignity that, on the whole, the women’s hearts were softened towards her.

  Once the fanfares were sounding and Norfolk, as Grand Marshal had declared the lists open, Anne tried to concentrate on the festive scene and to forget the massive, surly figure by her side. She could the more readily do so because Henry paid her no attention and seemed engrossed in some low-toned conversation with Suffolk; or, whenever competitors charged and thrust at each other across the barrier, sat moodily staring down into the lists where he would never pose and fight and rear his horse again. She knew how the sight of men with half his skill enjoying the daring rush of combat must madden him, and how the mockery of the occasion and the loss of his longed-for heir gnawed at his heart.

  But Anne’s compassion for him was dead.

  She turned from him to gather what entertainment she could. The pomp of trumpets and the reckless thunder of hooves had always been as the breath of life to her. It was good to Queen it over such pageantry again; to watch all the colour and movement, to see her brother and Brereton smile up at her encouragingly as they rode past, and Norreys, in his master’s place, wearing her favour; all of them trying, as far as they dared, to assure her of their friendship and to make amends for the King’s neglect. “These, and my women, are no fair weather friends, dependent upon the sun of royal smiles,” she told herself, and found herself laughing, pointing, wagering, picking out possible winners; so that she was carried out of herself, and clapped as vigorously as any when her gallant young champion charged and thrust and won a splendid bout against her brother. And by the time Hal Norreys drew rein immediately beneath her stand, she had momentarily forgotten the King’s displeasure.

  Norreys bade his squire help him off with his heaume, so that he might cool himself and, flushed with exertion and enjoyment, he looked up and saluted her. “How good to have you back, Madame!” he panted informally, his horse being so close. Like old friends, they had smiled into each other’s eyes; and, seeing how the sweat ran down his face, Anne tossed him her handkerchief. It went fluttering down into the lists above the halberdiers’ helmeted heads and, laughingly, Norreys made his horse rear so as to catch the wisp of gaudy silk, and, without any attempt at gallantry, mopped his brow with it.

  The sun shone warm upon them and it was all like a light-hearted fragment from her old life, so that in her momentary happiness Anne scarcely noticed that the King had risen. That his face, flaccid from lack of exercise, was nearly purple. And only when Margaret had touched her on the arm did she become aware of the commotion occasioned by some messenger breaking his way through the throng of gaily dressed nobles.

  “He has brought the King a letter.”

  “It looks like Cromwell’s nephew.”

  Scraps of speculation drifted about her. And then Anne saw Henry show the letter to Suffolk, and limp down the steps of the stand leaning on Will Somers’ shoulder. Together with his brother-in-law, he hurried back to the Palace, calling to his gentlemen to follow him. Even Norreys and Brereton were wanted and had to change quickly from their armour. And with no word of explanation the tournament was broken up.

  The King, it seemed, was riding to London, taking most of his suite with him.

  “Cromwell must have sent him news of a Spanish invasion.” The old, unfailing rumour beat round among the credulous and the timorous, easing the Marshal’s task and dispersing the disappointed crowd to their homes quicker than any body of halberdiers could have done.

  “Better go back to your apartments,” Norfolk told Anne curtly, as he, too, followed after the King. If he was aware of any reason for his Grace’s extraordinary behaviour, he refused to speak. But both he and Anne knew Henry well enough to be sure that he would have told his subjects, and rallied them to go with him, had it been the Spaniards.

  Wondering, waiting, worrying, Anne and her ladies lived through the rest of the day, and as soon as it was dark George Boleyn came back from London in a hired skiff. He bribed a page to tell Margaret he was waiting beneath the willows down by the river to see the Queen. He came with the utmost caution, for in London his movements were being watched. And by similar contrivance the two cloaked and hooded women found their way to him through the deserted gardens.

  There was no time for waste of words. “Nan, the letter concerned you. It is the end of everything,” he told her instantly, in urgent, guarded tones.

  “Concerned me?” Anne stopped short with a hand clasped to her racing heart.

  “All our friends have been arrested, and for all I know, I may be added to their number in the morning. The King and all our enemies are determined to trap you and hunt you down.”

  “But how can they? What have I done?”

  “It is not what you have done, but what they will pin on to you.” He took her cold hands in his, speaking against time, fearing th
at at any moment they might be disturbed. “Cromwell, Norfolk, Suffolk and all of them are with the King now, concocting their foul slanders. Anything to discredit you.”

  “My own husband! I knew that he is angry, but I cannot believe—”

  “They will accuse you of adultery.”

  Anne let out a stifled cry, and he drew her further into the shadows, where she sank down upon a low garden wall. “But never once have I been unfaithful to him!” she protested.

  “He is afire for Jane Seymour,” Margaret reminded her. “If it is true that he wants to marry her, then he might agree to anything—as he did before.”

  “With whom do they say that I—that I—” began Anne, piteously.

  “It seems you played into their hands when you tossed your handkerchief to Norreys this morning.”

  “You mean, that because of a handkerchief—”

  “My dear, you should know this weather vane Court as well as I do.”

  Anne was horrified. She could not bring herself to believe it. “But Hal’s sweet friendship has lightened all our days. Ever since we came, he has been like a brother to us.”

  “That would not save him,” jeered her real brother, with intense bitterness.

  “This must be terrible for him, too.”

  “All the way to London the King pleaded with him, promised him every sort of pardon and reward if only he would confess to it, and so ease the path of dalliance. It was even put to him that if only he would say you had once tempted him—”

  “Oh, dear Christ, the wickedness! And Hal, what did he?”

  “What do you suppose, sweet idiot? Hal was bewildered, horror-stricken as you. But right to the gates of Whitehall he protested your innocence.”

  Anne lifted her drawn face to the stars. “After all, the world is still beautiful,” she said softly.

  “But he is not the only one they mean to accuse!”

  Anne stared incredulously at the white, featureless disc of her brother’s face outlined against the dark cascade of willow branches. “What! Would they make me a common bawd?” she stammered. “I know, none better, that to climb is to augment the venom of one’s enemies; but who else, for pity’s sake, must be endangered because of me? With whom else have I fouled my husband’s bed?”

  “Will Brereton and Francis Weston.”

  “George, it is incredible!” protested Margaret.

  But Anne’s agile mind, goaded by fear, was already seeking for some loophole in the snarers’ net. “Will, I think, would not betray me. He is brave and strong like Hal,” she calculated, her eyes wild pits of desperation, “But Francis Weston, with his boastful bawdy stories and his scented shirts—”

  “It is possible that his imaginative tongue might unwittingly destroy you,” admitted George.

  “But how can even the King’s fawning curs substantiate these things?”

  “There will be plenty of jealous tongues, I fear, to swear that these men are frequently in your apartments.”

  “Yet everyone knows that Francis, for all his brazen compliments, comes to see my cousin Madge.”

  “Besides, all three of them have the sense to come in company or when we maids-of-honour are present,” pointed out Margaret. “So what can they prove against Nan?”

  “The Crown can usually produce plenty of glib witnesses, dear Margot,” answered George sadly.

  It was so true that it reduced them to silence. “Is that all?” asked Anne presently, in a stricken voice.

  It was some moments before George could bring himself to answer. For Margaret’s sake he would have omitted the name of his best friend. “There is also Tom Wyatt,” he said.

  “Tom!” cried both women, aghast. And Anne sprang up in fury, all weakness forgotten. “I know it is common knowledge that the King was once jealous. But you know how careful Thomas has been never so much as to cross my threshold, forswearing my company sooner than put me in suspicion! I thought I had proved it to Henry long ago.”

  “And may yet again, dear Nan,” soothed Margaret. “It is all too, too fantastical. If they be sent for trial, surely, George, my brother will be cleared?”

  “I think they might all have been cleared for lack of evidence,” said George gloomily, “had Smeaton kept his cursed mouth shut.”

  “Smeaton!” Anne’s angry movements were stilled. The very word was a gasp of incredulity. “God in Heaven!” she cried. “Does anyone outside Bedlam seriously believe that I would stoop to huddle with that little common runt? Even if there were no men left on earth?”

  George laid a warning hand upon her mouth. “He was always crooning round you, and the King himself has had occasion to boot him out.” In his anxiety lest they be overheard, he spoke more roughly than he intended.

  “George! You cannot suppose—”

  “No, I cannot, with your fastidiousness and his greasy love locks,” he laughed shortly, convinced by her indignant horror, and hating himself for even such momentary doubt. “But you must see that he, of them all, is the easiest to bring evidence against, to make people believe evil of. For one thing, he has no family backing. And so my lady wife makes it her business to tell Cromwell that the day she and our illustrious uncle came back unexpectedly from the tournament they found Mark Smeaton with his head against your knee. Damn her ugly soul in hell!”

  Anne and Margaret turned to each other instinctively in the darkness. “So that was why Cromwell—”

  “They say Smeaton’s vanity was tickled by an invitation to dine. He was trapped into Cromwell’s house. Pleasantly, over strong wine, that one-time creation of Wolsey’s tried to worm evidence out of him—a jumped-up singing boy who even when sober, needs no encouragement to brag about the hours he spends comforting the neglected Queen! Cromwell pretended to admire his fashionable new doublet, his well-fitting hose, asking awkward questions about how he came by the money to buy them. Questions that everyone is asking! Until even the poor fool himself must have perceived his danger.”

  “His danger!” breathed Anne.

  “Your own, dear Nan, cannot have weighed with him overmuch for all his gusty protestations. Cromwell sent for two stout fellows waiting outside the door, no doubt, and had him tortured. Down in some cellar from whence his shrieks could not be heard.”

  “They tortured him?” Woman-like, Anne pictured him as the boy whom Henry had first brought to her, the boy with the golden voice.

  “They knotted cords about his forehead and wound them tighter and yet tighter with a couple of sticks,” went on the relentless voice from the shadow of the willow tree. “‘No more, Sir Secretary! I will tell the truth,’ he cried. ‘It was the Queen who gave me the money.’ And as the cords pressed tighter, tighter even than Cromwell’s horrid mouth, God knows what more the whimsical coward confessed. His imaginary dream about being your lover, no doubt.”

  Anne crouched on the wall again, with Margaret’s arms around her. She covered her face and rocked herself in horror. Even then she could not wholly blame someone young and lovesick, unversed in the evil ways of Machiavellian statesmen, who, like herself, had been raised to dizzy, unfamiliar heights; and who had then been tortured. “After this, people will believe anything,” she kept moaning. “Oh, that Thomas and Hal and the other two should stand in danger of—of I know not what for me!” In an agony of love and self-reproach she stretched out a hand and caught at Rochford’s. “Thank Heaven, you are my brother, George! At least, such shameful accusations cannot endanger you!”

  George freed himself gently, and stood staring silently across the dark, moving stretch of river. And in those quiet moments Anne allowed her shocked mind to look upon the reality of danger in which her friends stood. In Henry’s present mood it might mean death for them. For Hal, whom even the King could not cease loving; for quiet, sturdy Will, and mercurial, amusing Francis, and for Thomas.

  For all of them the
Tudor’s grasping for a new woman might mean a sudden cutting off of all their splendid gallantry, their vivid creative minds and carefree jests. Yet even in her grievous anxiety for them, Anne was shamed at finding herself silently thanking God that she had been born a woman. That the unfaceable thing—Death—would not happen to her.

  “Do you think that he will put me in the Tower?” she faltered, remembering her instinctive horror of the place.

  “If they can concoct a charge of treason,” answered George, looking down at her pityingly.

  In her utter misery Anne wished that he would take her in his arms and comfort her; but for some reason he did not touch her. He seemed suddenly older, as if something had shocked all the impulsiveness out of him. And yet, as he stood motionless beside her, she felt the strong, sustaining weight of his sympathy; as if he shared this tragedy as no one else could. As if the shadow of death hung about him, too.

  Before he slipped back through the willows to his waiting boat he turned and took Margaret in his arms and kissed her with lingering passion, the frustrated love of a lifetime upon his lips.

  “The King, more than any man, appreciates Tom’s gifts,” he tried to console her. “In any case, there is nothing you can do for him. And rather than anyone in the world, I would have you with Nan now.”

  “Whatever happens, I will never leave her,” promised Margaret, with the starlight reflected in her steadfast eyes.

  And in the morning, before they had finished breaking their fast, Norfolk came with a company of halberdiers to take Anne to the Tower.

  “Of what am I accused?” she demanded, facing him bravely.

  “Of adultery,” he told her.

  “The King does this monstrous thing but to try me,” she said, with a lift of her little, pointed chin; utterly grateful to George because this time Norfolk’s blunt news was not the devastating shock he had hoped, and she found herself able to meet it with some kind of dignity.